A Study in Images
by love and music are forever
Summary: A series of 500 word each images which symbolically study the freindship between House and Wilson.
1. Chapter 1

**ABOUT THE SERIES:  
(Please read this)**

**Okay, so I'm going to use this space to talk about this new project I've started. It's called "A Study in Images" and it's a little thing I came up with after reading some imagist poetry. Basically these are each independent one shots that are a view of an image and the symbolism will either be explicit or discrete. All of them WILL be symbolic, for right now I'm planning just to explore the friendship between House and Wilson. **

**Also, each one of these will be EXACTLY 500 words long, no more, no less! EXACTLY!! (Word count is amazing). The other idea for this is that there will be exactly 500 of these ideas, I'll probably run out of ideas long before then, but if I can't get to 500 I'll try and get to 50. **

**And yes, I did come up with this idea at one in the morning and this fic was written right about that same time. **

**I'd love to hear what everyone thinks, not only of the story, but also of the idea in general. I'm a feedback kinda girl! Tell me what works and what doesn't. Thanks!!**

A Study in Images:

Part One

Carousel

How very simple a thing, and yet, so much depends upon its turning.

Wilson watched the painted horses rise and fall in careful rhythm to the automated music. The pastel carousel circled around and around; only a few small children rode the gilded horses. It was noon on a Monday and logically almost all of the children were in school.

One small child in particular caught Wilson's eye, a young girl, not yet old enough to attend kindergarten, she clutched at the dirty pink and sea green ribbons that were the reins. From his seat on the bench he could see her laughter, but he couldn't hear it.

The carousel slowed to a stop and the children ran back to the waiting arms of their parents. The "cute" little families meandered about the park, disappearing along the pathways that headed off in different directions.

Wilson turned back to the stationary carousel. So simple a thing. There was nothing ingenious in its form or in the painting, and yet, so much depended upon its turning. The smile and laughter of that little girl depended on it. The old man who was now eating a sandwich out of wax paper—the carousel was his livelihood. Everyday he sat under the sun-bleached umbrella and carefully operated the carousel. A small bird peeped its head out from a gap between two pieces of wood. It fluttered down and landed near the old man. He broke off some bread and threw it to the bird. The bird fluttered back to its hole with the bread and dropped it into the hungry mouths of three bald, little baby bird heads that poked out.

It was as if the carousel turned its own world. Without the painted horses and mechanical music the world would have disappeared into nothing more than another empty spot on the concrete.

And even for its magical ability to create this world, the carousel was old, tired. The thin veneer of paint only covered the painful cracks in the wood forced into its surface by stress and time and weather. The paint was just a cover allowing everyone to believe that the carousel would be able to withstand the test of time.

Oh, what fools they were not to see the truth behind the mask.

Two lives were caught up this "merry-go-round" world where they bounced up and down on the emotional roller-coaster that was each little horse. So much depended on the turning of the carousel. Without it the two of them would become nothing. They were stuck in the dizzying circle, lost in their world unable to escape but unable to deny their dependence upon it.

Wilson stood from the bench and placed one hand on a black horse's mane. The black horse had two ice-blue eyes that looked up at him in frozen hostility.

He sighed and turned from the horse to return to his own carousel.

How very simple a thing, and yet, so much depends upon its turning.


	2. Chapter 2

**Okay, so here is part two of this series! I hope people enjoy it like part one, I like this one better, it's told more from House's perspective this time. **

**Love to all!**

**Please! I still need feedback on this whole idea in general! thanks!**

A Study in Images

Part Two

Starlight

It was sometime after one in the morning, probably not yet two. The night was clear—an uncommon occurrence for New Jersey. The moon was waning; all that remained now was a thumbnail-sized sliver. Faint stars lit the streets with a pale, eerie light.

House zipped through the puddles of starlight and the light cast by the few street lamps. Dark houses lined the residential street and the roar of his motorcycle bounced from their stoic faces back to his ears.

He saw no other cars on the street and felt no danger in taking his eyes from the road in front of him and gazing up at the stars. Silky streamers of starlight trickled over his eyelids and caressed his unshaven cheeks. The light felt beautiful on his skin, it fell like rain. Sweat, cleansing grace.

He'd lost track of where he was now. He'd left behind the dark residential streets and was now headed east on a major thoroughfare. The stars were muted here, lost in the neon glow of tail-lights. Very contrary to the impression of the residential street, here, not all the world was asleep. But House felt that this place was far darker than the quiet stillness of the starlight.

He waited impatiently for the next exit off the main road, and an escape back into the world of starlight. He finally reached the exit and this time found himself on a more familiar road. This road seemed to hold both the harsh neon light and the pale starlight. It fluxuated, but the brief breaks from the starlight made it seem even more heavenly

Halfway down the street he turned into a parking lot a flood with neon light. He parked the bike and walked through the automatic doors. He immediately longed for the starlight.

He crossed the lobby and pushed the button for the elevator, it opened and he stepped inside. His desire for the sweet, silent night became stronger yet.

The doors dinged open and he limped from the metal box into another corridor lit by false light.

He counted down three doors then pounded loudly on the door on the left. There was no noise from the other side. House knocked again. There was a faint sound from the other side—a murmur that might have contained several swear words. A light flicked on and seeped out from underneath the door. House stepped back; it only took a second for the door to fly open.

Wilson—hair disheveled, clothed in only an undershirt and boxers—stood, livid, in the doorframe. "What in God's name do you want?" He asked in a whisper that didn't make any real effort to be inaudible to the people next door.

"To talk." House replied stepping past Wilson inside.

Wilson closed the door and turned to face House. Their gaze locked and once again the wash of sweet starlight filled House's senses.

"Did you know," he said "you can only truly enjoy the starlight after the neon?"


	3. Chapter 3

**I am a vampyre. I don't sleep. So here's the result of my midnight musings. Part three! Enjoy!**

A Study in Images:

Part Three

Mask

Wilson found it at the bottom of a suitcase. The suitcase had sat in his garage for years and was covered in dust and the leather had become dry and rigid in years of disuse. But even for the shabby condition of the suitcase the item inside, carefully folded in powder blue tissue paper had sustained no damage.

The item was a Venetian mask. It was fairly common looking—probably because Wilson had bought it off a street vendor in Venice for the equivalent of ten US dollars. It was painted half a dozen bright colors and would cover the wearer from forehead to nose. From the nose it swept back to two black ribbons—these Wilson fastened at the back of his head.

He lifted a mirror—another trophy of his garage diving—to examine the mask. The nose was painted gold, which turned into deep blue under the eyes. As the mask curved back, blue deepened to a dark purple, almost back. Turning his gaze back over the eyes he saw a rich, wine red. Tracing the eyes and painted artistfully across the mask were swirls of silver glitter. Finally, the very edges of the mask had been lined in silver ribbon.

He reached his hand back and tugged at the ribbon, the mask fell away from his face. He didn't particularly like what he saw. After the delicate beauty of the mask his features seemed awfully plain. Without the embellishments he found his face unpleasing to the eye. He pinned the mask to his face and once again the illusion of beauty was restored. The soft smile returned to the face of his reflection.

The Wilson behind the mask was not the same man as the Wilson who had first pressed the mask to his face. He'd bought the mask years ago on his first (and only) trip to Venice. He remembered the eyes that had looked out from that mask then. How perfectly youthful they had been. How full of hope and expectation those eyes had been.

And now…

Wilson looked back in the mirror, gazing back at him were eyes which had seen too much of the world and who had experienced too much pain to have left any of the fire of innocence or of joy. Only knowledge lurked behind those eyes—and what a cold companion it was.

He pulled the mask away again and carefully wrapped it back in the paper and placed it back at the bottom of the suitcase.

He wore a different mask now not pained in gold and blue but in years and heartbreaks. One that clothed not just his face, but his heart. No longer did the mask show beauty, now it sought to hide deformity. And now, the mask he wore was invisible.

He carefully adjusted his real mask, making sure to draw its veil over his eyes. Then, he went back into the house and put his mask to the ultimate test; he called Greg.


End file.
